


a cracked bell, or a torn heart

by feralphoenix



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Divorce, Ensemble Cast, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nonverbal Frisk, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers - Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:51:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5794075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What is there to say to this, to an eleven-year-old child whose life was once golden and blessed, who feels compelled to shoulder every possible misery he can find out of some twisted sense of penance?</i>
</p>
<p>All is not yet well on the surface, and for Asriel's sake, it's up to Frisk and Chara to fix things, or at least make their best effort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a cracked bell, or a torn heart

**Author's Note:**

> _(iron, honey, gold_ – Know that there are things you cannot just love away.)
> 
> alternate title: the parent trap (nonromantic version), hell difficulty

The credits of the last episode on the DVD are rolling, and Asriel is crying.

Well, that in and of itself isn’t too unusual. Anime night usually involves crying from somebody or other—sometimes even _everybody—_ and Asriel in particular is pretty weak to emotional moments. But there was nothing big and feelsy about this episode—it was just cute slice of life—and moreover he’s not blubbering loudly, too caught up in the plot to be ashamed: He’s shaped himself into an unhappy knot of white fur, nose hidden behind his claws to muffle his sniffling, face scrunched up tight.

Chara and Frisk are off in the kitchen to wash dishes and get more snacks, and so it’s Undyne who’s the first to notice. “Hey kiddo,” she says, in the softer tones she reserves for Alphys and children only, “what’s the matter?”

He whimpers, and that’s enough to make conversation die off amongst the others. Everyone else crowds around too: Alphys and Sans and Papyrus. They all wait, hushed, as Asriel scrubs his face with one paw, then the other, hiccupping softly.

“It’s my fault,” he says.

“Back up, short stuff,” Undyne tells him, rubbing his back. “What’s your fault?”

The line of his mouth trembles, briefly. “Mom and Dad,” he says.

All the adults pull sympathetic faces as one. It’s a lot easier, now, to understand how that last anime episode managed to provoke this crying jag.

“They hate each other now,” Asriel goes on. “Every time they see each other they fight. Mom doesn’t trust Dad with us anymore, and even after everything you guys did for us, she still talks about going to court to keep him from seeing us anymore whenever she gets really mad. I thought that since I—since me and Chara are okay now, maybe they’d—maybe we could have our family back for real, but they hate each other and _all of this is my fault.”_

And he curls his little body back into a ball, disconsolate.

There isn’t much that any of them can say to refute him, either. It’s been nearly a year since the barrier was broken and the monsters were able to return to the surface, and the former queen still will not give her ex-husband the time of day. It’s understandable. All of them have even heard Asgore admit it, in quieter moments. Not even the exodus—not even Asriel and Chara’s return to life—can magically erase the six dead children who paved the way, nor Asgore’s self-acknowledged cowardice in his decision to wait for victims rather than crossing the barrier to find them himself. A hundred years’ bitterness can’t be erased just like that.

It had been tense for a while—tense enough for all three kids to have to stay at Undyne and Alphys’ place for a few weeks as Sans and Undyne tried to defuse the brewing custody battle—but things have gotten calmer since. And none of the kids have let out so much as a peep of complaint until now, either. In Frisk’s case, and Chara’s—well. Maybe that just speaks for how much better this still is than wherever they both came from, and that’s its own problem right there.

But here Asriel is, huddled up to the armrest of the squashy couch, and no amount of backrubs from Undyne or soothing noises from Alphys can seem to stanch the flow of his tears.

Maybe he’s just reached the limit of how far hope and a cheerful façade can get him.

“Kid, sometimes…” Sans begins, and then trails off as everyone but Asriel looks to him. He sighs, shrugs, stuffs his hands into the pockets of the jacket he still wears everywhere. “Sometimes it’s just better to let these things go. Nothing in the world lasts forever. Not even the best of relationships. It’s a shame about your folks, but they might just be better off apart now.”

“You don’t get it,” Asriel says, voice raised—then he flinches. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“’S all right.” Sans shrugs. “We know you’re just upset.”

“You can shout or cry or get angry if you need to!” Papyrus puts in. “It’s much better than holding everything in!!”

“It’s just…” Asriel trails off briefly, his shoulders coming up around the back of his jaw. “Mom and Dad used to love each other so much? They were—gosh, they were so embarrassing, they were always calling each other goofy nicknames and nuzzling noses in front of everybody and…” He falls silent again, pressing his paws over his eyes. “But I ruined _everything_ for them. Dad wouldn’t have made the mistakes that Mom hates him for if I hadn’t died, and then they would’ve stayed together, and they’d still be _happy—_ and it’s all because I’m a bad kid and I wasn’t good enough—”

His voice cracks, here. Distantly, the sound of a running faucet ceases.

The adults look to one another over Asriel’s bent head, passing similar looks of discomfort and helplessness along, because what is there to say to this, to an eleven-year-old child whose life was once golden and blessed, who feels compelled to shoulder every possible misery he can find out of some twisted sense of penance?

Quiet footsteps add punctuation to Asriel’s sobs, and then Chara is elbowing Papyrus and Undyne aside to wedge themself onto the couch next to their friend. They wrap their arm around his shoulders, pressing their whole body up against his as if to fashion themself into his shield. Frisk follows closely after, navigating around Sans more politely to come to a halt in front of Asriel and rest their hands on his tented knees.

“It is _not_ your fault,” Chara says fiercely. “If it’s anybody’s fault it’s mine. I’m the one that made that stupid plan, I just dragged you into it with me. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I could’ve said _no,”_ Asriel argues, or tries to, through his tears. “And I did so much wrong, you don’t have to tell me I didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have listened even if you’d tried to tell me no,” Chara says. They rest their head against Asriel’s shoulder. “And the bad things you did have no bearing on what Asgore and Toriel did while we were… y’know. You told us they were already separated when you woke up, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Asriel says, lowering his paws from his face to stare at Chara, “but still.” Frisk takes his hands in theirs, kneading his fingers lightly in between their own.

“It’s all already happened,” Alphys interjects. Asriel and Frisk both look at her; Chara just closes their eyes, perhaps unwilling to lift their head from Asriel’s shoulder to show that they’re paying attention. “It’s in the past. And there’s n-no good in trying to take back what’s already happened. D-dwelling on it won’t, it um, it won’t make things better.”

“Maybe,” Asriel says, sounding defeated. Unspoken goes the fact that those in the room with the power to save and reset would not be able to unravel the timeline that far back anyway; the furthest back Frisk and Chara could reach is Frisk’s fall, and the furthest back Asriel could is his own awakening as a flower.

“Anyway,” Undyne says after it’s been silent for uncomfortably long. “I think maybe that’s enough anime for one night. We could find something else to do, or just wind down for the night—what do you punks think?”

Frisk shrugs, their gaze falling back to Asriel. Chara says nothing. Asriel, starting to realize that the decision is his to make, shrugs.

“Um,” he says, “I don’t think I’m really… in the mood for games or anything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool,” Undyne reassures him. “So, snack and bedtime for you, and quiet time for everybody else. Got it.”

“I can call Tori if you wanna just head home,” Sans offers.

“No, um—thanks, but I think I’d rather just stay here, with… with everybody else.”

“All right,” he says. “Whatever you need, kid.”

The tension slackens. Papyrus and Undyne leave for the kitchen, Sans trundling after them to serve as what he terms “disaster control”; Alphys stands up to fetch tissues for Asriel.

Frisk and Chara stay.

 

 

Later, in the hallway outside the guest bedroom the three of them always share, after Asriel has had graham crackers and warm milk and fallen asleep, Frisk bumps Chara’s shoulder with their own and waits until their friend has turned to look at them before releasing their hand.

There’s no surprise on Chara’s face, no confusion as to what Frisk might want. Their eyes are tired; their face is set in world-weary resignation. “We’re going to have to do something about this, aren’t we,” they say, voice quiet.

Frisk makes a face and raises their hands to chest level. _Somebody has to. And you don’t like it when they argue either, I can tell even if nobody else can._

“Neither do _you,”_ Chara accuses, but the next moment they deflate. “It’s still better than… you know. I was trying not to be ungrateful.”

Frisk just nods. _But if Asriel’s this upset, I don’t think we have a choice._ They pause for a moment. _I’ll worry about talking to Mom, so you convince Dad, okay?_

Chara breathes out and rocks from their heels to their toes briefly. “I—yeah, thanks. I mean I’d help but I’m—”

_It’s okay to be scared,_ Frisk signs, patient, smiling.

Chara shrugs as if to deter an unwanted touch. “The problem is just—they’ll expect that we want them to get back together, and nobody could make them do that. Even if they tried like they are now they’d just be miserable. Everyone would be.”

Frisk nods again, folding their hands at their waist.

Chara sighs. Their shoulders slump. “This sucks,” they say in a very small voice.

_We’ll fix it,_ Frisk signs quickly. _Or we’ll do our best._

“For Asriel,” Chara says.

_For Asriel,_ Frisk affirms. Then they take Chara’s hands in their own and squeeze, gentle.

Chara closes their eyes and leans in, resting their forehead to Frisk’s and squeezing back. For courage. And for Asriel, and for each other, and in some spirit of amends.

 

 

Sunlight filters, gentle, through the curtains. Distant voices filter through the slightly-opened windows, too: Asriel and Frisk, playing games of pretend out in the yard; the wind chimes, the chirps of birds. They are good sounds. Peaceful sounds. The surface world is lighter, brighter, than Asgore remembers it having been in the days before the war.

So much of that is tied up in the child beside him. Chara never tries to help in the kitchen—perhaps the accident with the pie is still too raw for them—but they are quite content to follow him into it and get underfoot, like an especially affectionate cat. Even as he makes the comparison in his mind, Chara bumps their forehead against his elbow, winding their fingers into his shirt.

“Pick me up?” they say, turning their face up towards his, eyes shining and unashamed in their privacy. They only ever act like this—only ever come to him to be babied—when no one else is there to see them at it; this is their and Asgore’s secret alone.

So: “Of course,” he says, and stoops slightly to offer his arm for Chara to sit against. They have grown since leaving the underground, but the extra height and weight are negligible against Asgore’s strength. Chara is yet featherlight as they lean into his chest, chin resting on his shoulder. They might still be underground together, Chara taking advantage of the stolen moment alone together to nestle close while they wait for Tori’s teapot to whistle.

…Well. There will be other times to turn that well-worn worry stone over in his pockets; he is better served paying attention to his child and the brewing tea now.

“Asgore,” Chara says next to his ear, voice soft: They have always preferred to address him and Toriel both by name. The stumbling produced when they try to force a more familiar term is humorous _(“Mr… D…ad… guy??” the most infamous, syllables drawn out ever more slowly, russet brows flat in puzzlement)_ and always dear, but if this is what they are most comfortable with, then Asgore will not push.

(They tried to explain it, once, how it felt simultaneously like the worst kind of insult to compare, and like stealing something they would never deserve, with no hope of earning it on their own merit. Then they went quiet and folded their lower lip into their mouth, hunched in on their own anxiety. Asgore had hid the heaviness of his heart and instead offered his hands, holding them steady even when Chara did not take them, and said patiently that Chara should take things at their own pace, that there was no rush.

They might never be ready, but: They are comfortable enough with him to show such open affection and trust, and that must be enough for the both of them.)

“Yes, my child?” he says aloud.

“Is that another recipe?” they say, and unfasten one hand from his shirtfront to point.

“Ah,” is all Asgore can come up with in response. He meant to have that put away before the children came over; his search for something that can bearably imitate Toriel’s pies is meant to be a private shame. It only ever ends in failure, anyway.

Chara is silent. Their red eyes have narrowed, just slightly, as if in consideration. “Um,” they say after a while. “Can we—talk about something? While Frisk and Ree are still outside, I mean.”

“Of course,” Asgore tells them, as he has always told them, and always will. “I will get the tea ready.”

Chara rests their face against his shoulder, for a moment. Their arms squeeze around him, light at first and then with increasing strength. It occurs to him belatedly that he does not know whether they are seeking comfort, or offering it.

He has to set them down to retrieve the tea and snacks, and when he carries the tray into the living room, Chara is already getting up on the sofa, folding their legs and resting their socked feet along the cushion instead of setting them on the floor. Asgore sets the snacks down on the coffee table and sits at the other end of the sofa, holding his teacup softly, the saucer balanced on his palm.

“So…” Chara takes a deep breath and hesitates before letting it out. They do not reach for their tea things, but fold their hands over the caps of their knees and look at Asgore sidelong. “You and… and Toriel… things still aren’t going well, obviously.”

Asgore’s instinct is to sigh, but he battens that down for all he is worth. “I am truly sorry that you all have had to be involved in all of this. It’s shameful of me, to forget myself as I do.”

Chara narrows their eyes and smiles. It is not a smile that Asgore likes much; it is too thin, too brittle, insincere. “You do try. We appreciate that.”

Asgore watches them for a moment longer. “But I should probably be trying harder. Is that not so?”

Chara winces. They use retrieving their teacup to avoid Asgore’s gaze. “It still feels—like I’m being ungrateful, complaining like this. I love you,” they say in a rush. “You’re a much better father to all of us than…” Their mouth shapes the beginning of the word, but they cut themself off.

“It is not ungrateful in the least,” Asgore supplies. “This is not a position that we should be putting you in.”

He watches as Chara closes their eyes and takes another breath, visibly trying to compose themself. They take a sip of their tea. Someone else might mistake the steadiness of their hands as calmness, but Asgore, looking closely, sees the tightness of their grip pull the small scars on their fingers taut.

“I know this is asking—a lot—too much,” they say, in a very quiet, nearly-hoarse tone. “But if Toriel was up for it, would you think about—trying to find a way to at least not fight in front of A—in front of us three anymore. Asriel’s been trying to tough it out but I don’t think he can deal with it anymore and Frisk doesn’t like to show it but I think it reminds them of bad stuff and I—I know this is all my fault, but I still…”

“My child,” Asgore says as gently as possible. “It is useless to try to assign yourself blame. We all share some responsibility for what led us to this; it is all our faults and no one’s. We all made mistakes. Some of us, terrible ones. But they cannot be taken back. And we cannot lift the weight of each other’s sins onto our own shoulders, no matter how much we would like to.”

Chara sighs. Their smile is pulled too tight and too thin. “I know that in my head, but.”

“I will continue to say it for as long as you need to hear it,” Asgore tells them firmly. “And even longer than that.”

They do not reply, but after a moment they scoot across the sofa cushion to lean against Asgore’s side: Small and warm and infinitely precious. “…Thanks.”

He waits for a few minutes, until the tension has fully drained from Chara’s body, before clearing his throat. “I believe the problem may still be—that I doubt Toriel is ready to have such a discussion. I am—aware that I am the last man qualified to rush her. I do not have the right to blame her for any of this.”

He will not voice any of the resentment to Chara, because it is petty and he _knows_ it is petty and it would be horrible and senseless to complain to someone so young, someone in his care, about a hundred years of regret and self-hatred and wishing hoping praying for the chance to find a way back to that lost place of love.

But heavens only know how much he wanted her to—understand, and if not forgive him, then at least take him back. Understanding just how unreasonable it is to want that does no help to dispense with those selfish thoughts. He wishes that it did.

“Frisk is going to talk to her about it,” Chara assures him, which is a surprise. “If she says yes—if she agrees to try to talk it out—will you be willing to try?”

Asgore looks down at Chara, at the serious set of their face and the dark bags under their eyes and the white lines of their knuckles as they clasp their hands together in their lap.

“I will do my best,” he tells them, serious. “I promise you this.” And after a moment’s hesitation, he rests his hand around their small shoulder. “Again, I apologize for putting you in this position. It is not fair to you to make you feel obligated to do this.”

“Okay,” Chara says, and they close their eyes, relaxing into him. “Okay.”

Asgore lets the moment linger for a while. Then he smiles down at them. “Let us talk of happier things, for the time being. Shall I get us more tea?”

This time when Chara smiles, it is soft. “Yeah, thanks.”

 

 

It is rare for the three children to not all be rampaging about the house together, but Toriel loves the times when she can engage with them one-on-one every bit as much as watching them in a happy group. With Chara she can search for new jokes—a part of her long con to help them become friendlier with Sans as much as for the joy of puns alone, though they themself have yet to realize it. Asriel will only let her cuddle him when they are alone, and he always wants to be read to, curled up in her lap or against her side.

And when she is alone with Frisk, why, that means it is time to bake together.

Today Chara has been overcome with sudden tiredness, and Asriel volunteered to accompany them on their nap rather than leave them to sleep alone. This made for an excellent opportunity to search for new cookie recipes to try with Frisk—Toriel may not like to allow the children on the human internet, but she certainly appreciates it for the number of excellent food blogs she has discovered since settling down on the surface.

The experiment du jour is lemon snaps, and even Toriel is not sure how this batch is going to come out, due to realizing too late that she is out of vanilla extract and having to substitute almond instead. The store is not that far away, of course, but when she sent Sans a text message he was otherwise occupied, and she does not like to leave the children (or the baking) unsupervised for long periods, and so.

Frisk hands her the trays to put into the oven and waits at her side as she carefully closes the door. Once it is shut securely, she straightens up to her full height and smiles down at them.

“It will be some time until the cookies are ready, my child,” she tells them. “What shall we do while we wait?”

Frisk takes a deep breath. They don’t seem entirely able to meet her eyes, and though they raise their hands as if to begin signing, they just clench their fists for several long moments instead. Something is amiss here.

_Can we talk about something?_ they ask, fingers hesitant.

“I don’t see why not,” Toriel replies, frowning just the slightest bit. “What is it?”

Frisk winces. _Please don’t get mad,_ they say.

Toriel’s frown deepens. “I cannot make promises, but you know that I will not harm you, my dear. What is it? Have you gotten into trouble of some sort?”

Frisk makes a face and shakes their head. _It’s about you and Dad._

It is not something that Toriel does purposely, but she feels her shoulders stiffen and turns away so that Frisk will not have to watch her expression darken. “I have told you that you do not need to call that man your father if you do not want to,” she says. Her voice sounds wooden even to her.

They make a soft sound, and she takes a deep breath and turns back toward them once she has composed herself. _I do want to,_ they sign, and their face is set in stubbornness and worry.

Toriel is struck with an urge—a terrible and ugly urge—to remind Frisk just how close that man had come to murdering them. How close they came to being one more senseless sacrifice in Asriel and Chara’s names, a cornerstone for war. She swallows it, with difficulty: They are not the one she is truly angry at, here.

“All right,” she says. “What about him, Frisk?”

It does not escape her notice, the way they take another breath and square their shoulders first. _I think you should talk to him._

She presses her lips together firmly. “There is no point in that.”

Frisk makes a face. _Not even so that you can argue a little less?_

Toriel closes her eyes. “I am never going to go back to him. I will never forgive him, either. There is no point in that.”

A small hand tugs at her sleeve, but she does not open her eyes. “There is nothing I have to say to him. There is nothing that can make what he has done right again. Nothing.”

There is another tug. She turns away.

“No amount of discussion, of apology, is ever going to bring the lives he sacrificed back,” she says. Distantly, she is aware of her voice beginning to raise. “Lives that were sacrificed meaninglessly.”

Frisk makes a small distressed noise, but there is nowhere for the steam that Toriel has built up to go but out.

“To wait, and to hide, and sit on his hands so that not only would the rest of the underground have to live in false hope but so that his only potential victims were _vulnerable children,_ children who climbed that mountain to escape their suffering in death just as Chara tried to do—just as _you_ tried to do—children who we ought to have been protecting above all else, children who were victims of humanity just as we monsters were—

“We never even knew that first child’s name,” she goes on, clenching her fists so tightly that her claws send pain lancing through her palms. “We had no idea who they were, what brought them to us, what they intended, what reasons they had for attempting to leave. He condemned them to death all the same. A child, surely no older than you.

“And the others—the others.” The words spill out, uncontrollable, volume still rising, raspy and sharp against her tense throat. “Rufus was always so full of optimism and cheer—so much more than anyone could have asked a child in his situation to hold on to. All Innig wanted was a place where she could be herself. Liron merely desired to _learn._ Astis never wished harm on another living creature in his life; he wanted to help us. Holly needed help more than anyone. And he—Asgore cut them all down, without mercy, without hesitation. Out of cowardice, out of _laziness._ They deserved better. They should never have died. They were _my children,_ as you are my child, and their blood is on his hands. You cannot ask me to forget this. Our freedom was bought with their _lives._ And I—I will hate him until I am dust.”

She whirls on Frisk. “I do not wish him dead—not even him. But it is pointless to speak to him. He killed my children and no amount of _remorse_ from him will bring them back to me.”

They have shrunk back from her burst temper, their posture tense and brittle.

Toriel closes her mouth with a click of teeth. She had more words, angry words, bitter words, frustrated words that she could hardly articulate to herself, about how fury at Asgore still saves her from resentment at her own inaction—how it propels her to get up every morning, as much as the knowledge that she has Frisk and Asriel and Chara to look after does. But those words wither and die in the face of the fear that pinches Frisk around the eyes, that makes them attempt to back surreptitiously away from her.

She sighs, tries her hardest to let the anger slough off her shoulders like snowmelt. She can keep the bitterness down for their sake.

“I am sorry,” she says, “for losing my composure. But my point remains, my child. There is nothing to say to him anymore.”

Frisk folds their lower lip into their mouth and worries it for a while. They clasp their hands together, rubbing their thumb over a knuckle. They have never said as much to her, but she remembers them doing the same thing during their time in the underground, and privately she wonders if the gesture did not originate as a way for them to comfort Chara or vice versa, when the two of them shared the same skin.

Finally they pull their hands apart. _You don’t have to forgive him,_ they sign, gestures small and subdued. _None of us really expect you to get back together with Dad… not anymore. We know that there’s some things that can’t be taken back. It’s just…_

“Yes?” Toriel says wearily.

_Please don’t fight in front of Asriel anymore,_ they sign. _He tries to hide it but he thinks it’s his fault, and he won’t believe Chara and me or any of the others when we say it’s not. I think it upsets Chara too, they just aren’t as obvious about it. We don’t need you to like Dad, we just want—to live in homes that don’t feel like they’re going to break._

“Oh,” she says then, raising one hand to her mouth.

_I know it’s a lot to ask,_ Frisk goes on, looking nearly as tired as she feels. _But Chara asked Dad and they say he says he’d be okay with trying to negotiate a little if you’re feeling okay with it._

“You have—already spoken to Asgore?” Toriel looks down at them, small and cringing as if to brace for a blow that she hopes their sense of logic is trying to tell them will not come. They are still for a long and painful pause. Then they nod. “You have planned this for some time,” she says, seeking confirmation, and they nod again.

She kneels on the soft rug to be on eye level with them. The kitchen is warm from the oven, filled with the scent of baking cookies, but even in her fur and her dress Toriel feels cold. She hopes that Frisk does not feel the same. It is, she knows, a vain hope.

“I am sorry,” she says, and holds out her hands. Frisk, never one to shy away from physical contact as Chara does, steps into her open arms and hugs her around the neck. They feel less frail than they did, that first time she hugged them back in the ruins. This at least is a way that she has been a proper mother to them.

So she takes a breath.

“I will think about it,” she says. “I cannot make any promises. But you are right, that you and Asriel and Chara deserve to live in a home where the ugliness between us does not make you feel unsafe.”

Frisk makes a soft sound against her shoulder. It is not a happy sound, but perhaps there is a note of contentment there, and she strokes their back in the quiet.

 

 

The great house with its long porch sits nestled at the foot of the mountain, the city skyline softened against the horizon on one side and Ebott’s severe backbone rising up in the other direction. The sky is blue; the sun is still high in the sky. It is a temperate day, the breeze gentle, the soft hum of late-summer insects filling the air with its faint song.

In the wide porch swing with its comfortable strew of cushions sit three children: Pressed close together despite the warmth of the day, hand firmly in hand. Asriel’s face is mashed firmly against Chara’s shoulder, and Frisk’s free arm is tight around his waist. One of Chara’s feet dangles off the side of the swing, the scuffed toe of their hightop pushing against the deck to keep the swing in motion.

All three of them stare out over the tall grasses that fill in the space between house and forest, eyes trained on the distant figures that walk through the field.

Toriel and Asgore are too far away for their voices to carry unless they shout, and the grasses come up too high to allow their body language to be fully visible. But their heads are bent towards one another, and their steps have fallen into an old familiar rhythm as they walk together.

The children sit in silence, watching, waiting, hoping. All of summer seems to hold its breath along with them.


End file.
